


Cruel Lies

by Macx



Series: Denuo [71]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magic, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A terminal patient in the oncology ward asks for House and refuses to be treated by Wilson. Her name is Brenda Parker, formerly Wilson. And she will die. House has to pick up the pieces</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruel Lies

 

 

James Wilson stared at the white ceiling of the bedroom.

He loved to annoy House.

The man himself was annoying; sometimes his very presence ticked people off. House liked that, liked to annoy people, to alienate people, liked to poke into their sorest spots and bring them to the limits of their endurance. He liked to see what people would do, what they were willing to put up with, how far they would let him go. And sometimes he tested his theories, tested people around him. Wilson was no exception; he would test him, too, see where he would draw the line, how much he would let him get away with.

Five thousand dollars, for example.

Paying the meals in the cafeteria, for example.

But, on the other hand…

He knew House well enough to see all his sore spots, to be able to poke and prod him, if he wanted to.

He didn’t.

He just loved to give as good as he got, loved to see that House, even after knowing the man for ten years, was still able to surprise him. There was always a new idea, a new quip, a new remark, a new layer. With Greg House one thing was certain – it would never be boring.

He loved to tease House.

He loved to see how far House would go, what his next idea, thesis, theory or whatever would be. House was very predictable in his unpredictability, and Wilson had to constantly be on his toes with that man. House was a genius in his profession. Even without his paranormal abilities House was the best diagnostician in the country. As a man, though, there was a big difference. Wilson had seen facets of one Gregory House that he doubted even Stacy had ever had access to. House was aggravating, cynical, rude, direct, sometimes acidly biting, always hitting the bulls-eye. House was not a nice man, no.

House was also a sad man.

Something very few people knew, Wilson had seen. Sometimes there was a spark in those expressive blue eyes, something flickering over the man’s face that, if one blinked too fast, one would fail to notice. House had been hurt in the past more than once and the relationship with his father was a problematic one. There had been other things, too, some things Wilson knew about, some things he didn’t, only suspected. One of those being the breach in trust between House and Stacy. Stacy had done what she had deemed right, had in fact saved his leg that way. Though…

Sometimes he saw the looks of other people, of colleagues, even strangers, directed at him with a mixture of bewilderment and pity. How could he put up with this?

Why did he allow House to treat him like he did? Let him get away with all that crap?

Because of what he saw; what he knew.

Like the flickers of sadness, even anxiety.

Because sometimes House was afraid.

Oh, he knew. Nobody would ever believe it should he ever tell. He never would; those rare moments were his, and his alone. Those few and far between moments when House would let down his guard enough to see the man under the scruffy exterior. The sad man. The man afraid of things that were beyond his control.

And – the tender man.

He loved to seduce House.

House might not be very nice outside their four walls, but within he would change. Those blue eyes would soften, as would the expression when he looked at him – and thought he didn’t notice, of course - and he would touch him. House wasn’t a very touchy-feely man, he didn’t want people that close to him, but here he would snake his arm around Wilson's waist and pull, and their lips would meet and Wilson would simply melt. He would slide his hands under House’s shirt, tickle the soft skin underneath and watch those eyes grow dark and misty, listen to the other’s breathing become a little harder, as would the kisses. He loved to nibble at House’s earlobe and at that little spot on his neck that would make House’s grip tighten for a second, would let a little sigh escape those lips as House would tilt his head or lean back and give him permission to proceed, asking him to, in fact.

He loved to have House’s hands on his body when he would take control again, loved to see passion bloom in his lover’s eyes, loved to be pinned down by the other man’s weight, loved to feel House’s fingers, lips and tongue on him, in places no man had ever touched him, he loved to hear the soft sound House would make when he would finally enter him, filling him like no other had ever been able to, completing him. And he would never be rough.

Afterwards he would snuggle into Wilson’s arms, kiss him long and sweet, sigh softly and settle down. Sometimes he would pop a Vicodin or two, when love-play had been too strenuous on the leg.

Wilson loved those quiet moments, when there would be no need to talk, when there would only be the two of them, and there would only be contentment. Sometimes it would be Wilson who would be held, and sometimes it would be House who had been pinned to the bed, but the aftermath was the same.

So, why did he put up with House, had put up with him even before they had become lovers like this?

Because of the rare moments he had seen the look House had sent his way. The look of a little boy who had gotten lost in a strange world. Or the look of a man who had just signed the death sentence for a baby. Or even – especially - the look that said ‘you and me. Now!’

Because he loved House.

Glancing over to the figure he currently shared the bed with Wilson smiled faintly.

Simple as that.

“Would you either grease those cogwheels in your head or stop thinking so loud?” House grumbled sleepily, and Wilson couldn’t help an amused chuckle.

He rolled over to the other side of the bed and slid under one arm, stealing a kiss before snuggling into an embrace, sighing once. The arms around him tightened, a hand stroked over his back lovingly.

“What were you thinking about?” House asked quietly, and Wilson answered without even thinking.

“You.”

The stroking hand stopped for a brief second before continuing its way.

“With what conclusion, Dr. Wilson?”

Only Wilson would ever be able to hear the uncertainty in that little question.

“I love you, Greg.”

He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one. At least none any other than him would ever be able to decipher.

But it did say:

“I love you, Jimmy.”

* * *

House gave a sigh of relief when he dropped off the last file of the day. Another case of hay-fever. Not surprising this time of the year, but they all came into the clinic to bother him, it seemed. Other doctors at least got the slightly more interesting cases, like a broken ankle, rashes or self-mutilations.

Well, off he would go to see if the team had dug up something to keep him happy. A week of boredom was behind him and it looked like another week of boredom ahead. The last 'interesting' case Cuddy had dumped into his lap had been a twelve year old girl with sudden disorientation and weight loss, coupled with fevers. He had gotten to the bottom of that within a day.

Boring.

House limped out of the clinic and glanced at his watch.

Nope, lunch first, he decided. Wilson would be in the cafeteria and there was a good chance of free food if he was on time.

He happened to be on time. Wilson was just turning away from the cashier as House swooped down on him, grabbed the chips bag and smiled widely.

"Green light?" the oncologist just sighed.

"Bright green. Would have preferred the red one, though."

It was an ongoing joke about a green light going on somewhere when Wilson had food, a yellow one for beverages and red for impure thoughts.

Wilson set down his tray and House snatched the soft drink, taking a gulp. Wilson just made a face of tolerant disgust, mixed with a very brief warmth flickering through his eyes. Anyone else would have missed it, but House was a good watcher. He knew his lover, just like Wilson knew him, and such small things never escaped his attention.

"Off clinic duty?" Wilson now asked.

House just grimaced. "One more hay-fever sniffle and cough, and I would have jumped out the window."

"It's the season."

"To be jolly. Yeah, yeah." House eyed the dessert, but Wilson's warning look told him to keep his hands off the pudding or else.

"How's your own nose?"

"Still smack in the middle of my face."

Wilson's lips twisted in a near-grimace at the bad joke.

"I'm all dosed up," House finally relented. "No problems."

"Good."

House laid siege to his dessert, but Wilson was a seasoned warlord when it came to defending precious pudding against enemy spoons -- his spoon, actually, stolen from his tray and used against him. House managed to snag a few crumbs, but then the plate was out of reach. Wilson's brows climbed a little, conveying 'are we done yet?', and House's eyes relayed his surrender, coupled with a promise to get back at him later.

"I'm thinking early day today," the older man now just said.

"You've been leaving early the last five days already."

"Yes, Mom, and I had a good reason, too." House slurped at the soda again.

"You were bored."

"Exactly!"

There it was again. That expression that told House that Wilson wasn't happy about it, that he did tolerate it, though, because there was nothing he could do anyway.

"Oh come on!" he growled. "What's there to do? Whiny kids, whiny Moms, bossy Dads… idiots with broken bones, more idiots with allergies they don't take their medication for, and the oddball here or there who thinks sticking something where it doesn't belong is the fun in life."

"You should know."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" House cried with mock indignation.

Wilson just quirked an eyebrow and ate his burger.

House tore open the chips and crunched on some of them.

"What would you do at home?" the oncologist finally asked.

"I wouldn't go home," the older man pointed out. "I'd ride my bike, meet hot women, get a babe to ride with me…"

"Ah, yes, the wild life of the road."

"Yep. Interested in the hot babe part?" House wanted to know, leering.

"Already got a full schedule. Might be able to squeeze you in next week." Wilson's attention drifted to the cashier and he smiled a little, apparently returning a greeting.

House glanced the same way and rolled his eyes. "Great. Bane of my existence."

Stacy. And Mark. For all their troubles, they still had lunch in the cafeteria when Mark was at the clinic for his groups or rehab.

"Be nice, House."

"Yes, master."

Wilson shot him a dark look. House answered it with another smirk.

"Hey, guys," Stacy greeted them, pushing the wheelchair of her husband.

House tried what might go for a smile, but it was more of a grimace. Ever since he had found out about Stacy calling Vin Tanner and telling him all about House's condition, the medication dulling his senses, their relationship had declined even further. What had been a kind of peaceful, though wary, truce before, the hatchet buried – under a very thin layer of soil – was now rising animosity.

It had been him she had blabbed about. His privacy had been breached. Stacy might be an ally, helping him, the paranormal element, but in House's eyes that didn't involve telling someone else everything, especially since Vin hadn't asked first. She had made the first step.

'I need to know I can trust you.' Her words; into his face. Sure, she couldn't trust him in some matters, like when it came to a patient. Stacy knew that; she always had. But he had trusted her with his private life, his secrets, and she had betrayed that trust once too often.

"Stacy," Wilson returned the greeting politely.

It irked House that his lover and his ex were apparently still on friendly terms. His eyes drifted to Mark and he noted -- with less satisfaction than a few months back -- that the other man looked more worn, more haggard, a lot paler. There were lines in his face that hadn't been there before. His eyes held that haunted, pained, angry expression House only knew too well. Those eyes had stared at him for a very long time each morning he had looked into the mirror.

The pain was still there. The anger, too. Only the haunting had stopped.

"What? No scathing remarks?" Mark asked.

House gave him a bright smile. "Nope. Not today. Master told me to behave."

Wilson rolled his eyes. He and Stacy exchanged long-suffering looks, which House chose to ignore.

"Finally found someone with a leash?" Mark looked at Wilson. "You might want to find a muzzle for him, too. Or castration."

"Aren't you in a good mood today," House quipped. "I see rehab is doing wonders for you."

Stacy sighed and shook her head. "Grow up, Greg." And she pushed her husband to a free table.

"He started it!" House called.

Wilson gave him a pointed look.

"What? He did!"

"And I might just take his words into consideration."

"What? The leash and muzzle? Jimmy, you kinky little boy, you."

"No, the castration."

House winced. "Ouch."

"That would neutralize you for sure." Wilson chewed the last of his burger and swallowed.

"Huh. Forever. What would you do then?"

"You still got that stick," Wilson dead-panned and rose, carrying his tray over to the station.

House smirked, a devilish light in his eyes. "Like my stick? I knew you wanted something long and hard and…"

Wilson shot him a warning look, this one with a lot more force behind it. House wisely shut up, but the smile and the expression in the eyes stayed. Tonight might just get interesting…

* * *

"We have a patient…“

“And a good morning to you, too, children. What, no apple for your beloved teacher?” House quipped, totally ignoring the slight frown Foreman was directing at him as he limped into Diagnostics. Given, he was late again, but hey – it had been more than worth it.

Last night had actually been more than worth it, leaving James Wilson limp on the bed, panting and totally spent, a warm weight on the mattress. House hadn't fared much better, buried inside his younger lover, feeling each muscle contraction, each quiver, almost each breath.

Yes, a very good night. And an even better morning, starting with a wakeup-blowjob. There had been no long, hard sticks of the artificial kind involved, but House couldn't get the very idea of adding a toy or two out of his mind. Wilson might just enjoy it. He knew he would like to see his lover with a hard rubber…

Let's not go there, he thought. Too much, too soon, too early!

And too crowded, though House rarely gave more than a flying damn about what the Three Musketeers thought.

“Dr. Foreman, in case it has slipped your attention we are working in a hospital. I do admit that having patients can be a real nuisance but it’s not totally unheard of for sick people ganging up on unsuspecting physicians in a hospital," he now lectured, his voice just the right shade of professor and his expression stern and his posture mimicking an old teacher he had had. "What’s so special about this particular patient that it could possibly be worth a moment of my precious time?”

Foreman quietly shoved the file over the table and House flipped it open.

“Just as I thought – nothing."

"ALL is not nothing," Cameron remarked.

House shot her an annoyed look. "Acute lymphocytic leukemia is oncology's case. End of discussion.”

“If it weren’t for the fact she asked not to be treated by Dr. Wilson but you, yes, I'd agree,” she shot back.

House leaned forward on his cane. “First, there are other oncologists aside from Wilson, and second, I diagnose. I don’t treat. Is there anything to diagnose, Dr. Chase?” He looked quizzically at the Australian.

Chase glanced at the open file and shook his head after a second. “No. Diagnosis is quite clear. ALL.”

“Correct. While ALL is most common in children and people over the age of sixty-five, it's not unheard of that it can hit anyone between those ages. Anything else? Cameron?”

The immunologist looked at the notes. “She’s… oh.”

“Correct again. As you put it so adequately, Dr. Cameron: 'oh'. She’s pregnant.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know?”

“She’s in her ninth week, Cameron. She does know. So, what happens if we treat her for ALL?”

“She loses the baby.”

“And if we not treat her?”

“She dies.”

House nodded, smiling almost benignly. “You finally got it. But if we treat her she loses the baby and dies. The ALL is in its final stage, she’s terminal, kids. Hand this over to oncology. There’s nothing we can do. Diagnosis over.”

House closed the file and shoved it back toward Foreman, again pretending not to see the dark look.

“Don’t you have anything to do? Patients to prod, reports to write, colleagues to annoy? Shoo.”

The three younger doctors left, Cameron shooting him a last pleading look, which House chose to ignore.

The file was still on the table.

House limped over to the coffee machine and got himself a mug full of the fresh brew, then settled down and leafed through the medical file again. Something was wrong here. Something kept poking him that while this wasn't a case for him, it still concerned him in a way. It that was unsettling him, nagging at the back of his mind like an itch at a place where one couldn’t reach it.

The patient had come here from – he read over the address – Boston. As if there weren't any oncology departments there! And she could have gone to New York or anywhere else, too. But no, the woman had come to a teaching hospital. And she refused to be seen by Dr. Wilson.

House frowned at another notation.

She had actually asked for Dr. Gregory House. What?!

Again he let his eyes go over the notes, the medical history.

Brenda Parker. Unremarkable woman, no high roller, so to speak. Had a job, a husband, was pregnant, and had cancer… He didn't know any Brenda Parkers, and he didn't know any people in Boston in general who might come here and bother him with something he wasn't qualified to treat. He didn't know if Wilson did, though. And if he did, he had pissed the woman off enough to not want to be treated by him in the final stages of an aggressive cancer.

The file didn't give him any answers. It didn't help him. It didn't give reasons or motivations.

“Damn,” he muttered.

He got up and slammed the mug into the sink. He really really hated this.

*

House never made it to oncology. First he was ambushed by Cuddy, having to justify another complaint.

His defense of “Oh, please. Just because the guy turned pink and lost his hair? Nobody saw the pink anyway, he’s black. And the baldness suited him. He’s a piano player. Just give him a pair of sunglasses and call him Ray” didn’t really go well with Cuddy’s mood, and the lecture continued.

After two hours – House thought she had added an entire hour, just in spite – he finally managed to escape, only to run into Stacy. And into Nurse Chapel afterwards who wanted him to sign this particular form immediately.

When he finally made it to the other department, he was told that Dr. Wilson was probably in his office. House rolled his eyes in annoyance. Their offices were on the same floor, but Wilson normally only went there for a) appointments or b) some quiet time. There was a reason c), too, if House remembered, and it had something to do with board matters, but who was he to know?

Limping back down to diagnostics he found Wilson’s office dark. Frowning he pushed to door open, looking for his friend. Lights out didn't necessarily mean he wasn't home.

There was actually no one inside the office, but House saw a figure standing on the balcony. He frowned more and pushed open the door. It was a nice night. Not too warm, maybe a bit too much on the chilly side to stand out here with only a dress shirt on. No coat, no jacket. Wilson's sleeves were rolled up, too.

"Hey, Wilson," he called softly.

There was no reaction.

House came closer. Alarm bells rang at the sight of his best friend and lover, hunched over and looking as if the balcony railing was the only thing keeping him upright. But what shocked House more than everything were the red rimmed brown eyes that glanced at him through a veil of unshed tears.

There had been only a few occasions he had seen the other man cry openly. He had never shed a tear about a patient, only shown his emotional involvement in small gestures, a brief shadow flickering through his eyes, a hand running over his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, or the fact that he got drunk with House and slept off the aftereffects on his best friend's couch. But those occasions had been rare. Wilson was the most compassionate man House knew, but he didn't take patients to heart.

Yes, well, maybe one or two. But he had the distance thing down to almost perfect. Right here and now, there was no distance, no perfection. This was raw pain that was held at bay by a last few shreds of control.

“Who died?” House asked quietly.

“Brenda.” Wilson's voice was tear-laden, weak, with a quiver House didn't like.

He frowned. “Brenda?”

“My wife Brenda. You should remember her, you were at our wedding.”

Brenda. Yes, he remembered her. A week after the two men had first traded bodily fluids in a rough handjob. It had been a release from sexual tension and House had enjoyed it immensely. He had met Wilson's fiancée a week later, at their wedding, and he had looked into the brown eyes of the future groom, seen the shock and the realization, and something else. He had filed that something else away. It had been a reflection of their passion.

Brenda Hamilton. That had been her name. The marriage had been brief but intense, and the couple had parted after two years and six months. House had liked Brenda, though she had been a bit distant sometimes.

"Ex-wife," he now only said, thoughts still whirling.

Wilson gave a broken laugh. "Yeah. Ex-wife. So what? It's just a matter of words."

"What happened?" House asked, still not moving.

There was a shaky half-sob coming from his lover as Wilson inhaled deeply. "You should know. She asked for you."

Things clicked into place all of a sudden. And the itch turned into a full-grown punched-in-the-gut feeling.

"Brenda Parker is… your Brenda?"

Now Wilson turned and those brown eyes burned. "She asked for you, House! She came here, asking for you and refusing to be treated by me! She doesn't even want to see me! Don't tell me you don't recognize her any more!"

House held the furious gaze with a calm expression of apology. "I didn't see her. She wasn't a case for me. I refused it."

"You… you what?!"

"Cancer patient, Jimmy. Oncology case. I didn't see her for obvious reasons, and she didn't come into the clinic."

Wilson deflated a little, starting to tremble. "I thought…"

"You thought wrong."

The younger man closed his eyes, sinking back against the support of the balcony wall.

"She isn't dead yet, you know," House said conversationally. "Last time I checked she was in oncology as a patient."

"I thought you didn't see her," was the tired reply.

"Nope, didn't see her, but when I asked where she is, one of the nurses said she was checked in and ready for her massage and whirlpool deluxe."

The joke fell flat, drawing not even a slight pull of the mouth from Wilson.

This was bad, House realized. Very, very bad.

“We wanted a baby, did you know that?" James whispered brokenly. "We tried, but it didn’t work, she couldn’t get pregnant. She wanted kids so badly, House.”

“But that wasn’t the reason for your divorce.”

“No. That was you.”

That was so unexpected that House didn’t even have a witty comeback for it, only something that sounded suspiciously like, “huh?”

“It’s been years, she’s remarried, I’m with you, so why the hell is it pulling me down that much?” Wilson wanted to know, voice so plaintive and young.

"Because you still love her. You love all your wives."

"I love you!" Wilson cried softly, shaking his head. "She's remarried! I don't have these feelings for her!"

House stepped closer and slipped his free hand around his lover's waist, feeling the tremors, the cold that had seeped through the clothes into the skin.

"You love them all," he insisted as he pulled the unresisting man toward him. "It's just you."

Wilson fought the embrace for a moment, then let House wrap his arm fully around his back. He buried his head against House's neck, another dry sob escaping him.

"I'm in love with you," James finally groaned. "Not with her. Not with any of them."

House felt himself smile a little. "I know." He kissed the tousled head gently. "I know."

It took Wilson a while to get his composure back and House, despite the slowly nagging pain in his leg, let him take that time. When the younger man finally pulled back, he immediately missed the intimate warmth.

"Home?" he only asked.

Wilson nodded, trying to smooth his hair, but it was a lost cause. They walked back inside and the oncologist took his discarded suit jacket. He almost carelessly unrolled his shirt sleeves and slipped into the charcoal jacket. House watched him quietly, then followed his lover through the quiet corridors and into the parking lot.

"See you at home," he broke the silence, nodding at the bike.

"Yeah." Wilson gave him a half-smile that never reached his eyes, then continued to his car.

House sighed deeply as he put on his helmet. Damn. Damn it all to hell!

* * *

"She's Wilson's wife?" Cameron stared at House in disbelief.

"Ex-wife," he corrected her. "Notice the 'ex'."

"She has cancer?" Foreman only wanted to know.

"They usually do when they come into oncology for a longer stay."

House limped over to the coffee machine and got himself a full mug.

"What will you do now?"

He turned back to look at Cameron. "Do? What should I do?"

The woman doctor fidgeted. "I don't know… I mean, you know her."

"Yeah. So?"

"Don't you feel anything for her?"

House frowned at her. "Like what? Pity? Lust? Hate?"

"Oh, I forgot. You don't feel anything. You're like a damn robot when it comes to patients!"

"Yup. It's not in my programming to feel." House took his mug and limped into the adjoining office.

It didn't save him from one very determined immunologist. Cameron's hands were on her hips, she was glaring at him through her reading glasses, and a few strands of hair had come lose from its tight knot.

"What?" House demanded.

"She is Wilson's ex-wife!"

"I think we established that as a fact."

"And she's dying of cancer. Don't tell me it isn't affecting Wilson, too!"

"It is. He's dealing with it."

"Without your help, I bet. How can you be so cold, House?"

He held her angry gaze and leaned back in his chair. "I'm not cold, Cameron. And I'm not ignoring Wilson's needs. I'm there for him when he needs me."

Not 'if'. It was 'when'. Because his lover would need him.

She hesitated, shifting her weight a little. "I read the file. She's refusing treatment."

"Yeah."

"To give her unborn child a chance."

House was silent, just looking at her with the expression of 'So? I read the file, too'.

"She won't make it long enough for the baby to develop to a mature stage."

"You know it, I know it, Wilson knows it. I bet even Chase knows it. She refuses treatment. End of story."

"You could talk to her."

House's brows rose. "Talk a mother out of protecting her child? We tried that once. Didn't work. She died."

"But she was far enough along to save the baby! Brenda Parker isn't!"

"Then go tell her. Maybe a woman to woman talk helps."

Cameron glared at him. "That has nothing to do with it!"

House met her anger seriously. "Maybe it does. Maybe she needs to hear it from a third party. But she might also just throw food at you. Who knows?" He smirked.

Cameron remained in the office a moment longer, then turned and left. Blessed silence descended until the moment the phone rang. From the caller ID it was Cuddy.

Great.

House checked the time.

It wasn't even time for clinic duty, so there were only two possibilities. Cuddy had another complaint on her desk, or this was about Brenda. Neither option was fun.

Taking a Vicodin he finally picked up the phone. "Hello, Cuddy," he sang brightly. "I'm still not having sex with you, even if you stalk me by phone now."

* * *

House had a lot of reasons – very good reasons – not to be here. One was that this wasn't his case. He wasn't an oncologist. He wasn't even a concerned relative or friend. Sure, right, he knew the woman. Old family friend at best. Oh, and he hated to talk to patients. Especially if they weren't his own.

All reasons that sounded quite good, but still… here he was.

Brenda Parker, formerly Hamilton and once a Wilson, looked at him. Her face was a pasty white color, her lips bloodless, but there was a fire in those blue eyes that House remembered from years ago. She looked so much older than her years.

"Greg," she said calmly.

She was dressed in a hospital issue gown, hooked up to a catheter and an IV. She looked frail. Frail had never been something Greg House would have called her.

"Brenda."

He stopped just inside the room, still studying her.

"It's not infectious. You can't catch it," she said quietly.

"Where's your husband?"

"Harry's on his way."

He still studied her. "You came alone."

"Yes."

"And you asked for me."

She smiled thinly. "Which was a lost cause. I know."

"You didn't come here just for me," House stated.

"I asked for you. I think that can be seen as 'coming here for you'."

He limped closer. "You ignored three very good hospitals on your way here. You actually left your attending doctor to come here. Why, Brenda?"

She looked away, her eyes drawn to the window. It was a beautifully day outside.

"This was a mistake," she whispered.

"Coming here? I think I can agree."

Brenda turned her head and smiled again. "Everything was a mistake. From the day I met James to the day I married him, I made mistakes."

"Water under the bridge. You've been divorced for years." House's brows drew down a little. "Still, you're here, at his hospital. His department. It's not a brain tumor, so that fact hasn't slipped your mind."

"Charming as ever."

"I aim to please. So why are you really here? Do you want to punish him? Maybe by lying here, weak and dying and refusing to speak to him? If you do, it's working!"

House knew he was snapping now, anger worming into his voice. He had to see his lover break down on the balcony last night. He had to watch him in bed, curled up against House, fighting his emotions, and he had given in to the desperate needs of James Wilson as the younger man had tried to banish the fear and anger for just a little while by having wild, rough sex. Yes, he had given in to that moment, regretting it in the morning. Still, it had been damn good sex.

"I’m not punishing him."

"You know that he’s head of oncology. He would run into you on his rounds. And he gets CC’s of everything. So why are you here if you didn’t want him to know?" he demanded.

"Maybe I wanted him to know?"

"So we’re back to the punishing thing. If you wanted to do that right you’d let him see you die," House said viciously.

Brenda smiled again, shaking her head. "You haven’t changed except for –that." And she nodded at the cane.

House glanced at his third leg. "The chicks dig it. "

"What about him? Does he? Because I really hope you finally got your head out of your ass and proposed to him."

Okay, that was a shocker. House stared at the dying woman. She raised her eyebrows.

"I know, Greg. I knew back then, too."

"What was there to know?" he challenged.

"That he had feelings for you. All the years, all that time he was my husband, he was also your lover."

He scoffed. "You think he cheated on you? With me?" It was laughable.

"Maybe not for real, but he wanted to. Maybe he had a mistress on the side, but I doubt it. And you… you two were soon best friends. He liked you a lot and while I could see where you might be acquaintances, I failed to see where the friendship came from."

House leaned forward on his cane, fixing her with a hard look. "He never slept with me, Brenda. Never."

"Not until after the divorce?"

That was like a slap in the face. "Not even then," he heard himself say woodenly. "But it wasn't for the lack of opportunity or drunken fumbling."

She was silent, briefly closing her eyes. "So it was one-sided? All that time? It explains the second marriage, the second divorce."

"Don't forget number three," he muttered. "And before we get out even more happy memories of times gone by… tell me why you are here, Brenda."

"Or what? You find a reason to transfer me out of here? It's too late for that, Greg."

"You're here to die," he growled. "I know that. You're here to hurt him, nothing else. You die, he hurts. You know he still loves you, right?"

"Just like I will always love him, Greg. James was a good man, but we got together for all the wrong reasons. I didn't know what it meant to be a young doctor's wife, and he didn't know what to do with a wife."

House laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, I think he did."

"Aside from the sex."

"There's more? I didn't get that memo then."

She gave him a slightly exasperated look. "I still wonder how the two of you could be friends, let alone best friends, and now… more."

House stared at her, anger rising at the last words. He fought it down. "Handsome, good job, his own car, steady income, great fuck. What do you need more?" he asked cruelly.

Brenda winced. "I hope he's happy," she finally whispered.

House slammed the cane onto the floor. "What do you care, Brenda? What is it to you who he fucks or turns to?"

Because he turned to House, had always turned to House, and the fucking had become loving. It had turned into something soft and tender and gentle, something he had waited so long to have and wouldn't let anyone else, not even a dying ex-wife, destroy.

"You come here to rub it under his nose that you're pregnant! You remarried, you got banged up, and now you're dying of cancer! You want him to suffer, Brenda."

"No. I'm not some kind of vengeful bitch."

"Then what?"

"I had hope..."

"For a miracle cure? There is none. Cancer is cancer. And yours is the worst kind," he brought the cruel truth home. "You’re dying, and your child has no chance. You might as well just pack and go home."

"I wouldn’t make it, and you know that. "

House was silent, then came up right next to her bed, taking in the exhaustion, the tired eyes that reflected everything. Like every terminal patient, Brenda was hanging on to hopes and dreams and wishes. "You could give him a chance," House said softly. "You loved him once. Make your peace, Brenda. You don’t want to destroy him."

"He’s strong. "

How many people thought that of James Wilson? House knew just how strong Wilson was, and he had reached his limit here and now. This was tearing him apart.

"He looks stronger than he is, and right now he’s vulnerable."

She smiled faintly again. "And that from the mouth of Gregory House."

"Blame the Vicodin. Are you going to see him?"

Again, silence descended, then she nodded. "Yes."

House nodded. "Thank you." He turned to go.

"Greg?"

Her voice stopped him and he turned once more.

"Is he happy with you?" Brenda asked.

He frowned. "Shouldn't you ask him this question?"

"I want to hear it from you. Is he happy?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "I think he is."

Because House was happy, too. In his own way. Their relationship existed on so many different levels, involved so many things, plus the paranormal aspect of it, but even if it was complicated and looked strange, it was theirs. It was them. Wilson didn't stay with him because he was masochistic. He didn't sleep with House because he wouldn't get laid otherwise. There were many opportunities out there for the handsome oncologist, but he had chosen this.

This was happiness.

"Good," she only said, closing her eyes again.

House limped out of the room, feeling strangely heavy.

* * *

Dr. Allison Cameron could be as stubborn and annoying as one Gregory House if she wanted to be. Well, at least she tried. Stubbornness was what had gotten her through high school, college and med school, had made her marry a dying man, and it had made her persevere in the face of House when she had been accepted as a junior at Princeton-Plainsboro. She had faltered a few times when House challenged her, but she was learning. This was the place to do so; it was a teaching hospital in many ways. If she could stand up to House, she could face the world. Chase had once put it that way and it was true.

So now she knocked carefully against the partially open door of Wilson's office, smiling as the oncologist looked up. Whatever he was reading, it wasn't a medical report. It looked like normal department paperwork. She knew what that looked like; she did some for House sometimes.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked softly.

Wilson didn't really look all that bad. Maybe a bit paler than usual, but that could be anything. He had no black circles under his eyes, his hair was neatly combed, the tie on straight, the shirt pressed and wrinkle-free. How he managed to stay that way in a household where one partner didn't seem to know what an iron was for was amazing. Then again, House and Wilson didn't live together, just shared room space now and then.

"No, come in. What can I do for you, Dr. Cameron?" Wilson asked, vocally his usual friendly self.

She closed the door as she entered. "I… heard about your ex-wife. Brenda Parker."

Wilson put down the pen he had been holding, folding his hands. He silently looked at her.

Cameron fidgeted a little. "I'm sorry," she then said.

"It's not your fault," was the quiet reply.

"It must be hard on you. I mean, she's in your department."

"Yes."

"If you want to talk to someone…" she offered, voice tapering off as the brown eyes looked at her. Cameron gave a little laugh. "Okay, maybe it's a stupid idea-"

"No," he replied. "It isn't. Thanks, Allison."

"Uh, you're welcome."

Not that she expected him to talk to her. He had House. Then again, she couldn't imagine House and Wilson talking about such intimate, personal things either. When she saw them, they traded sarcasm, cynical remarks, bantered, rarely talked about day-to-day matters, but still… Cameron had watched them ever since she had come here as a junior doctor, and she still didn't get the chemistry between them. She didn't understand, but maybe she didn't need to.

"I… I'll go now," she murmured. "Bye."

And she fled from the office.  
   
 

Wilson watched the younger woman go with a smile on his lips. It was one of those tolerant smiles. Cameron wanted the world around her to be happy. House would call it her pathology. But the world wasn't a happy place and doctors knew it; oncologists knew it even better.

He leaned back, eyes flickering to the glass door to the balcony. Yes, he knew how his ex-wife was. He knew it only too well. Not only did he get the CCs from the oncologist treating her, but he also had the necessary background. The ALL would kill her. She had chosen how quickly.

The report had come in just a few minutes before Cameron had entered his office, offering an open ear. Dr. Henry Jones's face had been serious, compassionate, the man knowing who he was treating. He had said sorry and Wilson had wondered why the man was apologizing. It wasn't that he had given Brenda cancer; he hadn't forced her into this decision.

Wilson swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew women protected their children, their babies, and House had lost a patient to cancer because of that natural instinct, too. This was worse, though. This was Brenda. He knew her; he knew her better than any of his other cancer patients. And his other patients wanted to live as long as possible, did everything they had to to survive, to live this extra day, week, month or year.

Brenda was ready to die for an already lost cause. The baby wouldn't survive.

Wilson rose and walked out onto the balcony, inhaling the air. He briefly closed his eyes and dropped his head back, hands on the small of his back as he cracked his spine.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn!

Why was his life so totally fucked up?

Three marriages, three divorces. Eleven years of loving a man who he had thought wouldn't even think about kissing another man, let alone his best friend. Eleven years… and they had paid off. The pain and desperation and hope had paid off. Then he had found out about House being a paranormal, about what the painkillers did to his abilities, about Stacy's role as an ally…

So fucked up.

House still had trust issues, even with Wilson, though he had never said it out loud. He didn't need to. Wilson knew. He just knew.

Now Brenda had come along, dropping that bomb into his lap. She was pregnant, she was dying, she would die here, in this hospital.

Totally fucked.

Wilson opened his eyes, fighting his anger at it all. Fighting his fear and rage. And he was fighting the need to find House, wrap his arms around him, kiss him senseless. He wasn't that needy. He would never be so pathetically needy to beg for House's sympathy, for his touch, his words, maybe just a look.

"Fuck," he whispered into the still air.

But he was damn close too.

* * *

"She refuses treatment."

The emotionless voice of his lover made House wince a little.

"No chemo, no radiation therapy," Wilson went on, face closed off. "She wants to hang on as long as possible to give the child a chance."

"She won't make it to the delivery date."

"No." Wilson let his head fall back, closing his eyes. "No, she won't." He opened his eyes again, looking at House. "She'll die trying to save her unborn child, which will die anyway."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes. She said she won't risk it."

House looked into those agony-filled eyes. He knew this was killing Wilson.

"She can't carry the baby to term, but she has hope. I know hope. All my patients have hope. I can't force treatment on her."

"No," House agreed softly. "No, you can't."

"Her husband is coming in tomorrow. "

"You think he can convince her?"

"No. She was pregnant when the ALL was diagnosed. She refused treatment back then, she still refuses treatment." Wilson sighed explosively.

"How long?"

He was given a tired look. "Weeks."

House was silent, no quip, no sarcastic remark leaving his lips. He limped over to his partner and pulled him close with a simple move, pressing a kiss to the brown head.

"You done today?" he rumbled.

"Yeah."

"Let's go then."

"I… want to stay?"

House stepped back, brows rising. "And do what? Sit in the waiting room? Haunt the nurses? Camp out in her room? That's husband stuff, Jimmy. Not doctor stuff."

"I know."

"Let's go then."

Wilson didn't budge. House rolled his eyes.

"Let me spell it out for you, doctor: there is nothing you can do. Go home, shower, get some sleep."

His lover smiled a little. "I know all that. I said it to people before, too."

"Then listen to yourself. C'mon." He tugged with more force and Wilson fell into step beside him.

"Jerk," Wilson murmured without any malice.

"You forgot the loveable part."

"No, I didn't."

"I distinctly heard it there."

"You got an ear problem then."

House smirked. "My ears are just fine. You're the speech impaired one."

Wilson shot him a dark look, but there was a smile there. A small smile. It was something.

* * *

Brenda Parker died eight weeks later.

With her body all but defenseless she fell victim to a severe infection that not even all the hospital care she received could stave off.

The eight weeks were hell for Wilson as he watched his ex-wife decline more and more. House was there in his own way, catching Wilson every time he was about to fall, teetering on the edge and desperately trying to hold on. The oncologist did his job, he didn't let any of this intrude into his work time, but at home it was different. Whenever he came home from visiting his ex-wife, House knew it was getting worse and worse. Wilson read it on paper since the attending oncologist had to report to him, sending him CCs, and he saw it in person.

Harry Parker, Brenda's husband, was a surprise for House. He was a really, really nice guy. He couldn't dislike him, though he had tried, but he wasn't surprised that Wilson and Parker became sort of friends over this.

Brenda started to decline rapidly a month after her admittance. Both men in her life, the ex and the current, tried to convince her to agree to treatment, but she refused. She still had hope.

Hope dies last, they always say.

It died the day Brenda's body could no longer sustain two lives, killing the baby.

She died not much later, a thin shadow of herself, her body ravished by the ALL and the infection.  
   
 

That night, Wilson emptied a bottle of whiskey and House let him. He wouldn't stop his lover from drowning the pain. He actually shared some of it, despite the fact that Vicodin and alcohol weren't friendly on a general basis. When Wilson had had enough, he maneuvered the drunk man into bed and let him sleep it off.

The headache alone would be bad. Coupled with the misery of losing his ex-wife to cancer, tomorrow would be hell.

* * *

It was a day like every other day. The sun was out, but it wasn’t too warm yet. The trees were swaying in the slight breeze that brushed over the silent grounds and touched the group of people dressed in black. House stood next to Wilson, eyes riveted to the grassy ground, listening to the drone of the priest’s words with only half an ear. He looked at the white coffin with its flower ornaments and tried to get a clear grasp on his emotions. It was difficult. He had known Brenda, but their ways had parted too long ago to make her a real friend. He had no friends anyway, aside from the one he now also called his lover.

Brenda Parker had died and left a hole in many lives, most prominently her husband's, but House didn't know if there was such a hole in Wilson's life. Their divorce had been too long ago and they hadn't been in contact, aside from the odd letter or postcard.

Now, the last eight weeks of her life, she had come back to haunt his partner and Wilson was just now starting to get his life back together again. Cuddy had given them both this day to say good-bye, and Wilson another day after that, but then normalcy had them back again.

Walking past the white coffin, House kept close to his partner, not caring what anyone thought. He had dressed for the occasion – sort of. Black suit coat, black pants, white shirt – ironed – and a black tie.

"You okay?" he murmured, leaning closer as they finally walked away from the grave with the dispersing crowd of people.

"Yeah," was the quiet reply.

"James?"

Both men stopped at the call and Harry came up to them. His eyes were slightly more red-rimmed than normal, but he was holding up okay.

"We're holding a small party, of sorts," Parker said. "Brenda asked me to throw one, just for family and friends. Nothing formal. Just… to talk and share… memories. If you want to… you can come, too."

House was silent, not interfering with his lover's decision, but he felt the brown eyes briefly flicker his way.

"Both of you," Parker clarified.

"I'm not sure it's appropriate," Wilson said.

"She specifically told me to ask you," the other man added.

Wilson fidgeted. He had already done a lot of fidgeting when Brenda's parents, his former parents-in-law, had looked his way throughout the funeral.

"It meant a lot to her," Parker said calmly. "And it means a lot to me. You were her friend, her husband, and you were there in her final weeks. Please, James."

"Say yes before he starts to beg and cry," House muttered gruffly.

Wilson shot him an annoyed look, but Harry only smiled.

"Okay. Alright. I'm coming."

"Great." Parker handed him a small card. "This is the place."

Wilson nodded, pocketing the card, then turned to walk toward the car. House nodded briefly at the widower, then limped after his lover.

* * *

The party as such was more pleasant than House had expected. He wasn't a party animal. He wasn't even the type to voluntarily go anywhere near a party if not for a very good reason. Wilson's marriages had been a reason to battle the party field; it had been fun to annoy a lot of party guests.

At this wake, though, he held back. He chose a seat at the back of the room and watched.

People came and went, all dressed in various outfits of black, charcoal, dark gray and some with dark blue. An elderly lady with a very big piece of cake settled next to him, smiling.

"Were you a friend of Brenda?"

The fork went into the creamy cake.

"No," House replied. "I'm a friend of the ex."

"Jamie?"

House wondered how many names James Wilson had. His wives called him James; all of them. He had always stuck to Jimmy. He knew some old friends called him Jim. Now there was Jamie.

"He's such a nice boy. Handsome, too. Too bad they didn't work out. I heard he came. I haven't seen him yet. Are you good friends?"

"Does sleeping together count as good friends?" House asked, voice gruff. He wasn't in the mood for entertaining elderly aunts or grandmothers of the deceased.

Funerals were boring.

"Oh, I think so," the woman answered slowly. She studied him, then smiled again. "You're a nice looking man, too."

He was? Okay, she really needed an ophthalmologist. House had shaved. Well, not this morning. It had been yesterday. He had combed his hair, he was wearing a black suit and a tie, damn the thing, but he was still scruffy. He had seen and treasured, even smirked at the looks he had received so far.

"I like my men scruffy," she added.

All right, time to seek safer waters! House reached for his cane.

"I didn't know Jamie would, though."

"Why? His last man was clean shaven?" he asked acidly.

Gray eyes twinkled. "I don't know about his men, but I know about him. He's such a handsome boy; I know he likes that scruff on you."

"You do? Got a crystal ball to prove it?"

She leaned closer, still smiling. "No. He likes looking at you. I saw you at the funeral, young man. He really likes you." Another wink.

"He just keeps me around for my body," House quipped.

Her eyes raked over him. "Yes, I can agree to that."

House studied her. She looked diminutive, but she was also the kind of shrewd old lady people underestimated. That expression in her eyes, that little smirk, said everything.

"I hope you keep him satisfied."

"I'll do my best. Scout's honor." He laid a hand on his heart, face only half serious.

The elderly lady chuckled. "If you didn't, I'd be worried. He's a cute kid. Nice ass, too."

Had he been eating, he would have spewed his food. As it was, House just shot her an incredulous look.

"What? You think people my age are not allowed to lust after handsome young men? You want me to kiss some wrinkly old bugger with false teeth and bad hair?"

He chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it. As long as you keep your hands off Wilson, you can look at him as much as you like. I rent him out by the hour, though."

She patted his knee. "Keep him close. He's good for you. You're good for him." With that she rose, carrying her by now empty plate toward the buffet tables again.

"I see you met Ruth."

House turned his head away from the elderly lady as Wilson plopped almost gracelessly down next to him.

"Ruth?" he inquired.

"Ruth Hamilton. My former grandmother-in-law."

"She is? Are they allowed to lust after their grandsons-in-law?"

Wilson blinked. "W-what?"

"She has the hots for you. Good for you that I'm in the game and she knows it."

"You… you… what?"

"Granny Ruth has the hots for you, Jimmy." House gave him a toothy smile. "And wet dreams, if I translated it correctly."

"She hasn't!" Wilson protested.

House only smirked.

His lover's face went through several expressions of disbelief, embarrassment, confusion and finally settled on resignation.

"Great."

"Yep, she's a great lady."

"She has the hots for me and you think it's great?"

"No, I think it's great that a woman her age can eat half a cake, drink three cups of coffee and still doesn't drop dead from the blood sugar in her system."

"You should see her drink," Wilson muttered. "She drank everyone at my bachelor party under the table."

"Granny came to your bachelor party? Don't tell me she jumped out of the cake!"

That got him a weak smile. "No."

"For a moment I thought I might have nightmares tonight."

Wilson's eyes swept the crowd, and the way he sat so close, House had the distinct impression that he wanted to lean into an embrace but didn't. As much as House didn't care what others thought about him, he respected that Wilson wasn't that much of a bastard and ass. It was why he loved him. So he wouldn't reach out and pull him close. Just this once.  
   
 

They left not twenty minutes later. It was the way Wilson kept avoiding more and more people, how he held on to his glass, eyes unfocused. Harry accompanied them, a pale shadow, composed but mourning. They all mourned, each his own way. Well, all except House.

"I appreciate all you did," Harry said as they stood outside, breathing in the cooler, not so stuffy air.

Wilson just shrugged.

"Thanks." Parker held out his hand.

Wilson shook it, giving the other man a brief smile. "Take care."

"You, too."

Parker turned and walked back into the room, Wilson just set out for the car.

"Touching family moment," House remarked.

"We're not family."

"Oh, I don't know. Shared a wife, bonded over a beer, now the secret handshake and the promise to be there for each other till the end of time."

Wilson just shot him an annoyed look. House left the topic alone, aware how thin the ice was he was treading on. Raw wounds here. Very raw.

"You okay to drive?" he only asked instead.

"Yeah."

House gave him a searching look, then accepted the statement.  
   
 

An hour later they were home. An hour which they had spent in silence, House alternating between watching Wilson and the landscape going by. Despite his worries, his lover had been able to drive as safely as always and they were parked in front of the apartment building where House lived without any major traffic mishaps.

Wilson locked the car and followed House through the door. House was already tearing off the tie and he threw it haphazardly onto a chair as he limped past. His first trip was to the fridge, getting himself a beer. He dared Wilson to say something about the alcoholic beverage. The younger man just grabbed it out of his hand, twisted off the cap and took a deep gulp. House raised an eyebrow.

"Want me to get you one?" he offered sarcastically.

Wilson pushed the bottle back into his hands and dropped onto the couch. "No."

House studied the pale, exhausted features and thoughtfully drank from the bottle. He finally sank down in his favorite chair, stretching out his leg. Wilson let his head fall onto the back of the couch, eyes closed, looking worn. He was still wearing the tie. Rarely did anyone see James Wilson without a tie on a normal day. There were the times he was in surgical scrubs during a biopsy, but otherwise he had the ties. Dress shirt, tie. James Wilson. Here, within the privacy of House's home, the oncologist usually undid the tie.

"Are you happy with the situation?" House broke the silence.

Wilson's head dropped back and he opened his eyes. Brows dipped into a mild frown.

"Situation? What situation?"

"You. Me. Us."

"We are a situation?" Wilson queried.

House sighed. "No."

"Then what situation are you talking about?"

He studied his lover, dressed all in black, looking pale but composed. Wilson had come to accept Brenda's death throughout those eight weeks, but it was still bad on him.

"You're a man."

"I hope that never stood to discussion."

"I'm a man."

"I can attest to that. House, what's this about?"

"We're men and we're in a relationship."

Wilson stopped and stared at him. "We are," he said slowly. "At least I hope we are and continue to be so. Unless you're telling me we're breaking up."

"What?" House blurted.

Okay, this was not going where he had wanted to go.

"Are we breaking up?" Wilson asked matter-of-factly, face already closing off.

"No!"

"Then what the hell are you talking about? I left my dictionary for House-English at home!"

"Very funny."

"I'm not laughing. Spill it!"

"In a normal relationship the man is the top," House stated calmly.

Wilson blinked. "Ye-es?"

"I'm on top."

"Ye-es again?"

"You're a man."

Wilson stared at him, incredulity rising. "You're… you're thinking about… that?" He looked like he was drawn between laughing and anger. "Now?"

"You're not a natural bottom, Jimmy!" House snapped.

"I'm not?"

"You're not submissive!"

"I think there is a difference between being bottom and submissiveness," was the slightly cooler reply.

House was silent, just looking at him.

"So basically you want to know if I like being fucked by you, House?"

"I want to know if you're happy with the situation."

"Right! Back to the situation again."

Wilson rolled his eyes. He got up and stepped over to his lover. He then bent forward, wrapped a hand around House's neck and pulled the older man into a kiss.

When they separated, Wilson smiled and walked into the bedroom, leaving House behind, the question still unanswered.

* * *

Over the next few days, House was contemplating what he had heard, and seen. What his lover had told him, or not told him. The answer he was still missing. He was good at watching people, at coming to a diagnosis, but James Wilson was a puzzle. He liked what they did. He liked to sleep with House, to bottom. On the other hand, he wasn't a pure beta animal. He wasn't an alpha either. He was… for lack of a better word… an alpha-beta. Or was that a beta-alpha? He could take charge, but he would never challenge House on anything concerning his… rank. His position. He would go head-to-head with him on medical matters, but in their friendship their positions were clear and accepted. House was the alpha, the outwardly dominant personality.

That didn't mean Wilson was submissive. Not by a long shot. He wasn't the nice little house wife. He was temperamental, he was demanding, he also needed to be needed, to be loved, and he wanted to love. On the outside he was the nice, handsome doctor, the boy wonder of oncology, the man everybody liked. But whoever got on his wrong side felt what it meant to piss off Dr. James Wilson. He could be a menace then; he could even top House's temper.

Wilson used that apparent harmlessness, those doe eyes, that puppy dog aura, to catch people off guard. He wasn't spiteful, vengeful, harsh or a manipulative bastard. He could be all that, but only if he reached his personal limit of what he could bear, and he could bear a lot. He didn't do it on purpose, most of the time anyway. His youthful looks deflected from how competent he was, and that could backfire when relatives or patients questioned his abilities. He was young, he appeared younger, he was talented, and he was… House's lover.

It was a complex puzzle, one he had never seen before, but now things were getting even more complicated.

Wilson had never asked for a change in their routine. Not that the sex was routine, but it was always House on top. Always. Wilson hadn't so much as tried to change that. Did he want to change it?  
House swirled the Coke he had poured into a whiskey glass. Scandalous, he knew, but he tried not to get drunk while figuring out the man he loved.

It might have something to do with the fact that House had strongly hinted at his own displeasure at being the bottom. He had briefly mentioned the one and only time he had experienced that form of loving a man, and it had been filled with pain.

"Shit," he mumbled.

That might be a reason. Wilson was good at picking up that what slipped under anyone else's radar when it came to House. And he had picked up that particular information and had acted accordingly. House had never felt he was overpowering his lover with his wishes. Wilson liked it. He wasn't shy; he would object to what he didn't like.

But would he ask for something House had told him already he didn't like?

* * *

House began to watch his lover more closely. He took in all the little gestures, the way Wilson would lean into a caress, react to a kiss or a little nip here or there. He would listen to his moans and soft coaxing, would witness the explosion of need and love in the brown eyes, and he would see the lazy exhaustion, the satisfaction, after their love-making. He took note of how Wilson would use his mouth and hands on him, but those caresses skirted his most intimate area, aside from grabbing his butt now and then. It wasn't any kind of avoidance that seemed… stiff or unrehearsed or out of line for their sexual escapades. Wilson would make it look fluid and willing and natural that he never ever slid a single finger toward that last breach of House's defenses.

He cared.

He knew.

He had listened.

And he didn't force the issue.

What House should have counted on was the simple fact that James Wilson wasn't stupid and had known him way too long for House to unobtrusively watch him without Wilson noticing the slightest thing. Wilson did notice.

"So, what are your conclusions?"

House, feeling lazy and warm and blessedly pain-free after his Vicodin, frowned. "Conclusions?"

"The diagnosis, doctor."

House turned onto his side and narrowed his eyes.

"I am happy, Greg," Wilson reiterated what he had said before. There was no lie. "I'm happy with you and the…," he chuckled, "…the situation."

"No wishes?"

"How about world peace? But since I couldn't have that, I settled for you."

House's lips quirked a little. "I feel so much better now."

Wilson caught him and kissed his lips. "You should. I love you."

"You love everyone."

"I'm not in love with everyone."

"At least not for eleven years," House agreed.

"Yeah. There's the time thing."

House initiated the next kiss, feeling Wilson melt under him. Hm, yes, it was good. It was sometimes too good to be true and he waited for the other shoe to drop, but it hadn't. Then again, too many other shoes had dropped already, what with the revelation as to what Wilson was, that he knew about the paranormal, that he worked for the Nexus.

"The time thing works for me," he said roughly, liking the feel of so much naked Wilson against him.

James reached up and caressed one side of his face, the palm of his hand scraping over the stubble. "Things usually do," he replied quietly.

"Lots of things."

"Good things."

House smirked. "Good is relative sometimes."

"Relatively good then," Wilson agreed, smiling. It was the smile he had when their conversation tapered off into strangeness. Like right now.

House lay back down, pulling his lover into an embrace. Wilson laid an arm over his chest, kissing a patch of skin on his chest. No more words were exchanged and House listened to Wilson's breathing change into a sleeping pattern. He didn't fall asleep for a long time, thinking.

Just thinking.

* * *

House had a few boring patients in the clinic the next morning, the most interesting among the boredom that walked or limped into the exam rooms being a five year old who had managed to swallow three table tennis balls without choking. It was amazing what children did, but it was the first time he had seen that. Well, not really seen. Another case had been a 'senior citizen' who had only needed new prescription glasses instead of serious brain surgery, as he had read he would need.

"You've got mail."

House looked up from making the last notes in the last patient file and took the letter from Cuddy, who gave him a curious and also annoyed look.

"What?" House asked innocently. "It's just the bill from my hooker."

"Does Wilson know?"

"He ordered her the last time."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "It's a lawyer," she informed him.

"You read my mail?" House put enough outrage into his voice to make her glare even more.

"No. The name of the law firm is on the letter. It's from Boston. Anyone you know there who might be suing you?"

"Only dead people," he answered, already looking at the envelope, curious.

"You're disgusting."

"Thank you. I do my best." House pocketed the letter and limped off into his office.

Cuddy didn't follow, which he was thankful for. The team was busy somewhere else, probably with Susan Hopes, their latest mystery illness patient. Cameron was convinced it was secondary arthrofibrosis, but Chase argued that the white cell count was too low, even for an African-American woman, and Foreman was backing him up. House had left them to fight it out on their own. He would have a look at the tests he had ordered when the results were finally all back.

Sitting in his chair, House took out the envelope and slit it open. He was glad he was sitting as he read over the words because otherwise he would have had to really sit down now.

"What the hell…?" he muttered.

He read the letter twice, then pushed himself to his feet and limped out of the office, brushing past two startled nurses. He didn't knock as he opened Stacy's door and the lawyer looked up from her work, eyes widening as he slammed the letter onto the desk.

"Translation!" he demanded.

"And a very good day to you, too. Greg, what's going on?"

He leaned heavily on his cane, gesturing at the letter. "Tell me what that is."

Stacy looked at the letter, then frowned and picked it up. "It's a letter. To you. From a law firm."

"I can see that!"

"Who's suing you?"

"No one!" he snapped.

"Oh-kay…" She was about to add something, but suddenly Stacy frowned.

House was close to yelling at her, his temper rising. She took her time to read, face going through several expressions, then she finally looked up and her eyes reflected her confusion.

"Is this the same Brenda Parker who was once Brenda Wilson?"

"The very same."

"And she… bequeathed a house to you?"

"I knew it!" House exclaimed and slammed the cane onto the floor. "That conniving bitch!"

"I don't see…"

"That's the house they lived in!"

"James and Brenda?" Stacy looked at the letter again, then nodded. "Yes, that's their old address. James gave the house to her."

"Exactly!"

"And now she gave it to you?"

"Yes!"

House glared at his ex as if she was responsible for the decision.

"Why?"

"I don't have a fucking clue. You call that lawyer and find out!"

"What? I'm not your personal secretary, Greg!"

"No, but you're a lawyer. You understand their language," he shot back.

"Does James know?"

"I doubt it. Stacy, please," House mellowed a little, voice growing more pleading. "Just call and find out what's the deal. She gave me their house, Jimmy's place! You know it was his house before the divorce. She never owned it, but he gave it to her as part of the alimony payment. It's why he didn't pay alimony out of his nose. Whatever she's trying to do from her grave… I want to know."

"I doubt her lawyer can tell me, but I'll try," Stacy agreed, smiling a little now. "Tell James. He needs to know."

"Yeah."

House turned, feeling a little calmer now, but something inside him was still too turmoiled for his liking.

"Greg?"

He stopped and looked a the woman who had once owned his heart.

"How is he dealing with her death?"

House's face was unreadable. "He's dealing," was all he said.

He left, closing the door firmly after himself.

* * *

Stacy walked into his office a few hours later, a file in her hand, a serious expression in her eyes.

"Uh-oh," House said loudly. "Not good. Do I need a lawyer?"

"It's about the letter."

"I do need a lawyer. Know any good ones? Cheap but good?"

Stacy shot him one of those annoyed looks. They were far from the annoyed looks Wilson gave him, but they brought across the fact that she didn't want to come outside and play.

"It's for real," she now said and put the file on the desk. "Brenda Parker left the house to you. I talked to her lawyer, Maxwell Stoke, and he confirms it. She changed her will a week after coming here and her husband didn't object to her choice."

"What the hell is she trying to do?" House snapped. "It's Wilson's house! He gave it to her and she's supposed to…." He gestured wildly. "I don't know. Give it to her husband, her parents, whoever, but not me!"

"But she did. Give it to you, that is," Stacy told him.

"Thank you for repeating the obvious again. What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well, what do you do with a house, Greg? Rent it out, sell it, live in it yourself… The possibilities are endless." She leaned forward. "But whatever you do, talk to James about it."

"And say what?"

Stacy's eyebrows rose a little. "You really want my advice?"

He grimaced. "No. It'll probably be something warm and fuzzy and dressed in frilly pink."

"So you'll just be your usual rude and sarcastic and arrogant self. I get it." She pushed the file over to him. "Go talk to James."

House stared at the file, nodding minutely. Stacy simply left again, silence descending in the office.

It was interrupted by Cuddy's annoyed yell of 'House!' and his deep sigh. Clinic duty. Right. He had forgotten…

* * *

It took the rest of the day to work up the actual nerve to talk to his lover. Not that he really did need courage. He needed a good moment and good moments didn't come along throughout clinic hours or people bleeding to death for no apparent reason. His latest mystery case had arrived the time he had wanted to clock out. He had been his last clinic patient and had promptly collapsed, bleeding out of every orifice. When they finally had him stable enough the lab tests had come back and House had just groaned about stupidity. Apparently the man had been swallowing aspirin like candy because he was afraid of blood clots.

It freed his mind to think about his more personal problems and the fact that he really needed to talk to Wilson.

Brenda had left him a house. Not here in Plainsboro. It was in Edison and it had been rented to some couple with kids. Good for them. House knew it was a fine place to live, though for someone with a bum leg it had too many stairs.

Damn.

He walked into the cafeteria, almost instinctively knowing that, since Wilson hadn't grabbed a cup of coffee in his office, he would be down there. And he was. Bingo. Yes, he knew his best friend's habits. At the moment he was standing in line, looking at the selection of cakes, so House grabbed a mug and went ahead. He filled it and went to the cashier.  
   
 

Wilson had decided on an extra large coffee, no extra flavors, and no dessert. He wasn't really hungry, just felt this strange agitation he couldn't explain. It had been there all day, fluctuating, as if he was expecting something to happen and it wasn't happening. He didn't even know why; none of his chronic patients were any worse, none of his new patients had worsened, and paperwork was up to date, so no Cuddy breathing down his neck.

As he came to the cashier the woman waved him through. "Been paid for. You could even get a pie if you want to."

"What? Who paid?"

She gave him a long-suffering look. "You know, I've been here for six years. Almost seven, actually. It's always been the same routine with the two of you. He eats, you pay. Sometimes he only has a snack. Explains why he is such a stick." She smiled. "And now you really throw me a curve ball. I actually need to rethink my whole strategy when you two are in line together!"

Wilson stared at her. "House paid?"

"In full. Coffee plus pie. So get yourself one. It's free." The cashier smiled.

Stunned, Wilson walked back to the dessert bar and took a slice of apple pie. House had paid? House?!

He looked around and found his lover sitting at one of the wall tables. There was an almost angelic smile on the scruffy face.

Alarm rang through Wilson.

Something was up. Something really, really bad. Something that would probably hit him in the face at the most inopportune moment.

Like… right now.

Walking over to his still smiling lover, he put the tray down and slid into the opposite seat.

"All right, spill. What's going on?"

"And hello to you too, honey."

Wilson glared at him. He hated nothing more than terms of endearment, especially in public, and most especially from this man.

"Something is up and it has to do with you. What did you do, House?"

"Nothing." Now there was this fake expression of innocence that had the alarm bells shrilling more and more.

"House."

"It's nothing."

"You never pay," Wilson pointed out as he tried the apple pie and found it rather good.

"Do too!"

"Do not."

"Sometimes, I do."

"Right." Enough disbelief made it into his voice to have House grimace.

The older man sipped at his coffee, silent, studying the table top. "We need to talk," he finally said.

"We are talking."

"Not here."

"So you pay my coffee and add a pie instead of maybe, just a thought, paging me?"

House scrunched up his face. "Huh, yeah, there's that."

"So what do you want to talk about?"

"Something personal."

Now the bells were ringing so loudly, Wilson thought he was suffering from tinnitus.

"Oh-kay," he said slowly, the pie suddenly tasting like cardboard.

"My office," House only said, rising. His face was unreadable.

Wilson nodded. He pushed the pie away and bussed his tray, carrying the plastic cup of coffee with him as he followed House. Those blue eyes were briefly on the bussed tray, but there was no comment.

They silently walked into Diagnostics, Wilson shutting the glass door after himself as House limped to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. He threw it on the desktop and it almost slid off.

Wilson took the thin file, eyebrows rising a little. "What's this?"

"Read."

So he did.

And he had to sit down.

"She left you the house?" he breathed, looking up to meet House's still inscrutable features.

Well, mostly inscrutable. Right now he looked almost apologetic.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Let's get a medium and we do a séance, ask the dead woman why the fuck she gave the house to me."

Wilson almost laughed, but it was a weak, desperate laugh. "I don’t believe this…"

"Huh. Join the club. Had Stacy check it out. It's legit. Not a joke. I have a house now."

"So what are you gonna go with it?"

"Sell it."

"What? Why?"

"Why not?"

Wilson gestured helplessly. "You have a house."

"I repeat: why not?"

He looked at his lover, eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you feel bad because it once belonged to me. Greg, I'm not that petty. I gave it to Brenda and she now left it to you."

House toyed with the yo-yo. It almost bounced against the TV before it snapped back into his hand.

"Yeah."

"And you have a problem with it."

"No."

"You do."

Snap. "Do you?"

Wilson sighed. One of those conversations again.

Snap.

"I don't have a problem with you owning something I haven't looked at or thought about in years."

Those intense eyes were on him again, x-raying him.

Snap.

"Really," House murmured.

"Yes, really. Greg, whatever made her do it… you have it now. Do what you want, but you might not want to sell it. It's rented out, right?"

"Yeah. Nothing but trouble. Fix this, fix that, broken pipes, bad roof, whatever." House twirled the yo-yo. "I'm selling it."

Wilson put the file onto the table again, leaning back into his chair. "Okay. Want me to help find a good agent?"

House shrugged.

Wilson took that as a yes.

"You gonna be late?"

The oncologist blinked, then smiled briefly. "No, Mom, I'll be on time tonight. Why? Planning a big dinner?"

House grimaced and put away the yo-yo. Wilson just chuckled and got up, leaning slightly over the table.

"Chinese," was all he said.

"Too bad," House replied. "I ordered Thai already."

"Cancel it. Chinese."

"Huh. No chance. You eat what I order or we'll have a serious talk about marital duties."

"We're not married. And you don't have any duties. You actually don't even cook."

House leaned forward as well, their faces closer now. "If you don't shut up I might just do it."

"And ruin a perfectly nice day by crappy food for dinner?"

"I don't cook crappy food."

"No, just horrible food."

House's eyes sparkled, his eyes pulling into a brief, warm smile. "Love you, too," he murmured throatily.

Wilson drew back, aware of how close he was to stepping over the line he had drawn for himself. Work was work, private life was private life. He wouldn't start breaking the rules now. From the smirk and the devilish gleam in House's eyes he knew he had been manipulated.

"Bastard," he whispered.

"Huh. What a nice way to return the feeling."

Wilson grimaced. He straightened and gave his lover a dirty look. "Manipulative bastard," he corrected his earlier statement.

"Young love. So many ways to express it."

"We're not young."

House looked wounded. "Young at heart."

"Uh-huh. See you later."

"No good-bye kiss?"

"No." And with that he opened the door to leave.

A sigh made him chuckle. It was a big, theatric, not serious sigh. Then he walked down the corridor and back to his work. There was a smile on his face, a lightness to his step that would set off new gossip, but he didn't care. He also truly didn't care about the house. It had been Brenda's for too long for him to be sentimental now, and if House sold it, so be it. He had a different life now.

* * *

The topic of the house was ignored. Life went on. Life plus the fact that House still watched his lover, still looked at him throughout all kinds of situations. If Wilson actually noticed he didn't call him on it.

A week passed without incident, without really interesting cases, and without anyone assaulting or suing House. Cuddy was almost manageable that week. House only bitched twice about all the boring patients who apparently ganged up on him with such mundane illnesses he could diagnose in his sleep, and Wilson let him vent all he wanted. No cancer patients died, one angry husband yelled loud enough for Wilson to think about calling security, but it was just an episode of emotions boiling up and quickly calming down again. He even got an apology afterwards.

Normal.

Normal was nice.  
   
 

Wilson was in Diagnostics, lounging in the cream colored easy chair, legs up on the foot rest, drinking a cup of coffee. He had sauntered into House's office about five minutes ago, bringing a large mug of boiling hot coffee, and since then the two men had sat in companionable silence. House was playing with his yo-yo again, a sure sign he was thinking.

"You're not happy with the situation."

The yo-yo swung forward, then snapped back.

Wilson frowned. "What? You still on that?"

"I'm not good at leaving things alone. You know that. So… what do you want to change?"

"Nothing."

"Not good enough."

"Nothing, Greg. Nothing at all. I am happy!"

House snatched up the yo-yo once more. "You're happy being the bottom all the time?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Leave it alone, Greg. Just leave it. I'm happy, I enjoy it very much…"

"And you like to repeat that sentence a lot. You want to change the situation."

"No!"

Wilson's feet hit the floor and he pushed himself up from his easy slouch. It was a better sign than any words that this was hitting a nerve.

"Why not?" House asked curiously.

There was an exasperated sigh. "You know it."

"Pretend I don't."

Wilson's hands were on his hips, eyes flashing slightly. "Okay. You want me to spell it out for you? You told me, House! You said you tried it once, it was bad for you, you never wanted to experience it again."

"No, I didn't."

"My memory is not affected. I know what you said."

House held the stormy eyes. "I said I didn't relish the experience. I didn't say I wouldn't do it again."

Wilson was speechless. Finally he managed a weak, "What?"

"I tried it once, it wasn't fun for me, and I didn't try it again. Frankly, it was because I never found the person I could trust like this."

Wilson's hands dropped from his hips, his eyes wide. "It's a matter of trust," he said softly.

"Yes, it is."

"Why are we having this discussion?" the younger man finally asked, voice a little too level for House's liking.

House gazed at him, blue eyes trying to relay what he couldn't put into words. He willed him to read between the lines. Very deeply between the lines, in areas no normal light would reach.

Please, Jimmy. Understand me.

Wilson finally sighed softly and relaxed his stance a little. "I need to be back. Got a patient."

"Yeah," House murmured.

"See you?"

It got him a nod and Wilson turned after another long look, leaving the glass tank of an office. House sat in his chair, unsnapping the yo-yo again, eyes distant.

Nobody disturbed him for a long time.

* * *

It was late.

Another week later and late. Wilson was waiting on the results of a test he had ordered. He needed to be sure before talking to his patient. So he had time to think.

About the situation.

A smile played over his lips.

Whatever had House in a twist over this, he wouldn't drop it any time soon. Something was keeping his lover's mind awake with the 'situation' they had.

And what was their situation?

House was the top, he was the bottom. Wilson didn't feel like he was being pressured into this every time. He liked it -- very much. He liked the feel of House inside him, of the fire racing up his spine when he hit that special spot. As a doctor he knew all about anatomy, but when they were in bed together, the anatomy classes went out the window and he just enjoyed, sensed, felt, loved. There was no domination, no pressure, nothing like that at all. There was just Greg and the incredible sensation of loving this man.

Wilson frowned and stirred his tea. He had switched from coffee to flavored tea because of the hour; he didn't want to stay awake all night.

What if this wasn't about his happiness with what they had? What if this was about House? Was House happy? Was this his ingenious way of telling Wilson he didn't want to top?

The oncologist almost laughed.

Right!

First of all, this was House he was thinking about. The man who knew subtlety only because it sometimes served his bastard moods. No, House wasn't subtle. He would let Wilson know if he disliked being on top.  
Second, House was a man. That didn't make Wilson the woman either. He liked it. Really liked it. Sure, he would switch if House gave any indication, but as the older man had told his lover before, he had tried it once and the experience had been painful. It had stuck on Wilson's mind, was committed to memory, and he was happy with the 'situation'. He would never push; and House didn't push either.

Emptying his mug, Wilson walked back into this office.

Damn this situation. What was wrong with what they had? He had never complained, House had never attempted to change anything. He was happy; he assumed House was happy. As happy as House could ever get. He was getting laid on a regular basis, the sex was great, mind-blowing sometimes, and his lover knew just what to do. Wilson was learning, too. He learned all those secret spots, the sensitive places that drove House wild. He quickly learned what outfits turned him on, that he had a manner of control over his lover that sometimes scared him, and that being the bottom meant control. House was a dominant personality, and he wasn't a pussy cat at home, but he literally melted under Wilson's ministrations.

Sometimes he was close to purring.

Hell if he knew why his lover was so insistent now; hell if he knew what had House so on edge about this.

But he would find out sooner or later.

* * *

It was one of those typical thunder storm evenings. The rain wouldn't let up, the streets were already flooded, and storm warnings were on TV constantly. House had switched off the tube and both men had gravitated to bed to the sound of rumbling thunder and the steady beat of the relentless rain. It was natural to slide together naked, the soft patter against the window rising to a crescendo as the rain increased and wind added more force to it.

House gently stroked over the soft skin of his lover’s abdomen, dipping his finger into the navel and Wilson sucked it in for a second, while playing with the soft curls at the older man’s nape.

They kissed leisurely, Wilson making a soft noise in the back of his throat. Stubble scraped over his jaw and he moaned his approval as House let his hands glide over his side.

“Jimmy?”

“Hm?”

“When we… I mean, when I… you know… is it good for you?”

House cursed himself for stammering. He wasn't the man to fumble for words, to be struck speechless or become a blabbering idiot. He prided himself for his wit and sarcasm, a talent that never left him, even in the most dire of situations. Right now, talking about sex with Wilson, he felt like a teenager.

There was a second of silence before Wilson cleared his throat. “Are you truly asking me if you’re good in bed, House?”

“No.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“Do you enjoy it when I…” Again he broke off. It was just a word! He could talk about sex all day, make jokes, be an ass, but looking into those brown eyes, he was lost.

“When you what?” Wilson prodded.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No.”

“When I’m… inside you.”

“Oh." Wilson gave him one of those weird looks of someone studying a specimen he didn't understand. "You want to know if I like it when you fuck me? Well, what do you think is all that moaning and howling and coming all over you about?”

“You don’t howl.”

“Humor me.”

“Okay. So you do howl. But is it good?” House insisted.

Wilson shifted and tugged at him until he was looking into his lover’s eyes, then he bent to place a kiss on him.

“Yes. Yes, it is good for me. I love to feel you inside me, I love to feel you move and I love to hear you and I love to see you.”

It was said with complete sincerity. It was the truth.

“Did it ever hurt?”  
   
 

The question startled Wilson and he gave his lover a penetrating look. This wasn't the usual House he was looking at. This was the serious version of his friend, the man who wouldn't suddenly slip off into sarcasm, make fun of his answers, snap at whatever he didn't like. This was the man others rarely, if ever, saw. This was the man he knew was hiding underneath that barbed shell. Together with the tender, considerate lover, the seriousness made up the person he loved so much, with the added sarcasm on occasion.

“No," he finally answered slowly. "Not really. It was a little uncomfortable at first but that’s long gone. Why are you asking all this?”

The way those blue eyes avoided his, how House looked anywhere else but at him got Wilson’s suspicion rising within a second. Something was up. Something was going through that agile mind and it had been sitting there for a while, bubbling gently until now.

“Greg?”

A fragment of a conversation they had a long time ago popped up in his mind, and he frowned even deeper.

“Once. I didn't relish the experience."  
“Wait… you? When… ?”  
“A long time ago. It was good, at least for him. I think.”

“Why do you want to know if it hurts me, Greg?” he asked softly.

House rolled to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. He finally rubbed a hand over his bristly face, exhaling sharply.

"Greg?" Wilson queried, a bit more worried now.

“I… I think I want…”

Wilson held his breath, biting his lips, trying to stay perfectly still. In his mind he completed the sentence and while it sent a thrill through him, it also made him even more careful. Very thin ice here, he realized. He had never seen Greg House at a loss for words; well, at least not like this.

“You want me?”

It was as if something was flickering through him. This feeling of… indecision, fear, being unsettled. His stomach fluttered a little.

“… yeah… “

It was such a soft reply, so close to a whisper. But Wilson heard it. He heard it on so many levels and he almost felt it -- as if he sensed House's emotions, his wishes, his fears.

House didn’t articulate his wishes often; he’d rather show than tell. This expression of his lover’s desire for him was rare and hell if it didn’t turn him on.

Still, he was careful. So very, very careful. House was brash and rude and bristly on the outside, but inside there was a soft core, a gentleness that had last been shown like this to Stacy. She had hurt House more than she would ever know, and it had taken Wilson a long time to smooth some of these wounds, avoid permanent scarring.

"You want me in you?" James asked.

He didn't touch the other man, didn't dare to initiate any kind of contact. House would bolt.

He could feel it as if it was his own set of emotional baggage. He simply knew.

The older man just nodded. There was a hint of insecurity in his eyes that made the intention not to touch go out the window fast. Wilson, simply speechless, just kissed him, long and sweet and hot. It had never happened before that House wanted to bottom for him, and Wilson was happy with the way it was. But something was different, something Wilson couldn’t put his finger on; all he knew was that somehow House needed him this way. And that he was afraid of it in the same instance.

He had asked about this before, had dug and pushed and pulled, tried to ascertain how happy Wilson was with their arrangement. James had been uncertain as to why his lover was asking this now. It wasn't like he would go along with House's wishes and desires if this was either painful or uncomfortable for him. He wasn't some shy little girl.

"Why now?" he asked softly.

House's right hand was stroking over the length of his side, gentle and light in its caress.

"I want it."

Not good enough. There had to be a reason for Greg House to suddenly throw all caution into the wind and open himself wide.

Blue eyes bore into brown ones.

Trust. So much trust. Pouring out of every pore, almost smothering Wilson, and he barely managed to keep from gasping. The sensation was gone, leaving only the insecurity, the need to understand, the indecision.

"I trust you, Jimmy."

His heart missed a beat and his breathing hitched a little. "Greg…"

House didn't repeat the words, but he didn't have to. It was clear as daylight in his eyes.

Oh god… oh godohgodohgod…

Wilson caught the other man's lips in a kiss once more. "You don't have to do this," he murmured. "I don't feel I'm missing out on something in this relationship. I love you. I love what we do. I don't feel like a submissive…"

"You aren't," House interrupted him immediately.

"Then why?"

"I'm missing something."

Wilson blinked. "You miss…" He stopped, then quirked a little smile. "You miss something you haven't had before. Greg…"

A long finger silenced him. "I had it before, Jimmy."

"It hurt you."

"It was uncomfortable."

"And you never slept with a man after that. At least not that way. You don't have to do it."

"No, I don't. I want it."

Wilson quietly studied those deep blue eyes. House held his gaze, unwavering, serious, wanting.

"You're crazy," he finally murmured.

House smiled. "I love you, too, Jimmy."

He smiled back. "Yeah."

Again they kissed, Wilson putting everything into the warm, wet contact, his hands stroking over the hard planes underneath him. When they separated, he pushed up. At House's quizzical expression he grinned.

“I have an idea.”

He walked into the bathroom to return with a large bath towel. Placing the fluffy towel over the sheets, he gently nudged the older man to roll onto his stomach, ignoring House’s quizzical look.

“Don’t tell me Stacy never gave you a backrub?” he grinned, producing the scented massage oil.  
   
 

Wilson carefully sat down astride House’s hips so as not to cause any discomfort or even pain in his lover’s leg. House could easily handle having his leg touched, but if weight was put on it the wrong way it would end up in severe pain. House made a soft sound when Wilson touched his shoulders, letting his hands glide over the skin, enjoying the feeling of it under his hands, the way House’s muscles would ripple under his touch.

Pouring some of the oil onto his hands he repeated the touch, but with more pressure this time, kneading some of the stiff muscles into submission. Despite his leg House usually moved fluidly but the unnatural posture his body was forced into due to the inability to use the limb properly sometimes caused some of the other muscles to cramp, being otherwise fit or not. Wilson had developed a fine eye in observing first his friend, now his lover, and though he didn’t have many opportunities to interfere in the past, that had changed. And he intended on using those to the fullest.

Under him House groaned quietly as Wilson reached a hard knot between the shoulder blades and he pressed his thumbs into the unrelenting muscle until he felt it loosen.

“What are you doing and where did you learn that?”

“A cramped muscle will loosen much better when constant pressure is applied for about two minutes than if it is kneaded. The biochemical reaction within the muscle tissue caused by the pressure…“

“Stop the lecture,” House grumbled, ”I’m a doctor, too, you know.”

Wilson smiled knowingly at hearing the familiar grumble of not-really-protest and proceeded with his ministrations. Not having detected any other muscle knots Wilson alternated between long gliding strokes all over his lover’s body to deeper ones, gladly noticing how House seemed to relax into the mattress.

Shifting his own body a little he included arms and legs into the procedure, smiling at the little sighs House was making. Ever since the episode with the professional masseuse Wilson had known that House indeed did enjoy this kind of attention but that it was hard for the other man to quiet down enough, trust enough, to really enjoy it. After that Wilson had visited two courses in massaging – one even about erotic massage, and what ever had ridden him to do that? – but it seemed he was able to put his knowledge to good use now.

If he ever had had any doubts that House trusted him, now there were simply dissolving. The ever-wary blue eyes closed, head resting on his hands, House sighed ever so slightly when Wilson caressed a spot he knew was very sensitive. House’s breath was hitching a little as Wilson reached his buttocks but he didn’t draw away or gave any indication of sorts that this was anything but pleasant for him.

Something trickled through the younger man. Pleasure. Need. Wonder. So much wonder. And trust.

Working his way back up again, Wilson allowed his body to brush against his lover, feeling his own excitement build as House stretched lazily into the contact.

“Turn over,” he softly whispered into his lover’s ear, adding a little nip to the lobe and smiling at the shiver this caused.

House had become very quiet throughout the massage and Wilson took that as a good sign. They could joke in bed like any other couple and it wouldn’t stop House from uttering a sarcastic or flippant comment every once in a while, and Wilson loved those sides of his lover just fine. But when he became like that, soft and gentle and quiet, it was an absolutely different experience, and somehow it evoked even more tender feelings in Wilson, stirred the wish to protect this man. And of course there was the knowledge that it was him House was showing this side to, and only him.

Vulnerable.

House rolled onto his back languidly and blue eyes blinked lazily. Wilson sighed inwardly, letting his fingers dance over House’s arms as he slowly placed them onto the pillow beside his head, interlacing their fingers and bending down to claim those silent lips. House responded to the soft kiss, opening and inviting and enticing but he didn’t take control, letting Wilson lead where he wanted.

Trusting him. Again it shivered through him, that feeling of rightness.

Wilson pulled back, brushing his fingers over House’s cheek and lips as he let them wander deeper. Coating his hands with the oil he glided over shoulders, arms and hands before turning back, this time splaying his hands over House’s chest and ribcage. Blue eyes watched his moves, but closed when he repeated them, but with his fingertips only. He had aroused House in the past often enough to know where the man’s hot spots were, and his lover responded nicely to them being teased. Running the palm of his hands over the nipples, for example, in collaboration with the tip of his thumbs only had House gasping slightly; teasing his flanks had him squirming a little – so much for not being ticklish, ha – and using his fingernails, creating a trail from flanks to chest, flicking over the nipples even had him arch.

Gregory House was, public image aside, a sensuous man, and he craved human contact like the next person. He had denied himself exactly that and right now it seemed to Wilson that his lover indeed had a yearning to make up for those six years. And he certainly wasn’t the one denying him.

Sliding his hands lower, over abdomen and hips finally earned him an audible sigh. Wilson slid deeper, parting his lover’s legs and settling between them, carefully pushing the bad leg out of the way, not without running his fingertips teasingly over the soft and sensitive skin of the inner thigh, brushing the groin in the process, which nearly made House jump. Cautiously massaging the legs and feet – he had learned the location of some of the more responsive pressure points and used that knowledge to a tee – he was delighted to finally hear House give a soft moan.

Gliding back up he slowly brushed over House’s manhood teasingly, tickling the soft skin of the scrotum. He let his fingers wander a little bit deeper. House jerked in response but spread his legs wider, gasping as the teasing was drawn out by brushing the inner thighs near his hardness and very lightly touching he pubic region. A quick glance in his lover’s face showed only relaxed pleasure, and now Wilson wanted to heat things up a bit. Cupping House’s hardness gently he glanced at his lover for consent again before he gently stroked the palm of his hand over the hard flesh. House’s eyes slid shut and he gasped, his twitching into the contact, and Wilson smiled.

He slicked his hands again and set up to turn House into a quivering panting mass with his hands alone. He knew the moment was right when House gripped the sheets and spread his trembling legs instinctively even farther. Having teased his lover to almost completion twice Wilson took the oil bottle again, positioning his slick fingers again, But instead of just teasing he put a little more pressure behind the touch.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, grinning as those blue eyes stared at him disbelievingly – and pushed.

House’s head fell back into the pillows and he gasped as Wilson slowly but steadily pushed into his lover, watching every change in his face, monitoring every breath as not to hurt him, while he aimed for the one single spot that he knew would make the whole thing the most pleasurable experience ever. He should know, after all it had been House introducing him to this pleasure. And he wanted to share it with House, wanted to show him how good it was, how it felt – and from the sudden jerk of hips and sucking in a lungful of air on House’s part he seemed to have accomplished that goal. So far.

Wilson continued to pleasure his lover with both finger and hand, noticing with satisfaction how House started to pant and moan, and he added a second finger. Seeing his lover like this, lost in his pleasure, trusting Wilson to both send him flying and catch him afterwards, hearing every moan and gasp and sigh, Wilson felt himself respond very strongly. But he took his time as not to hurt, not to go too fast.

“Jimmy …”

There was an unspoken plea in that hoarse moan, and he slowly withdrew his fingers, sliding up to claim another kiss – and this time it was a hungry one.

“On your side?” he whispered quietly, but House shook his head.

“Want to see you … “

“You said it was easier for the first time.”

“It’s not my first time.”

“Technically it is.”

“I want to see you.”

And Wilson gave in. He just couldn’t deny his lover something if he begged, and this time he did beg, at least with his eyes.

“Okay.”

Positioning his lover’s legs as to not put too much strain onto the leg, Wilson slid inside his lover inch by inch, caressing and soothing and nibbling at his neck. He heard House moan deep in his throat and tense. He stopped, waiting, but House reached up for another kiss, pushing his hips upward encouragingly and Wilson took the unspoken request and started to move, slowly at first, letting his fingers run over his lover’s body, feeling the man twitch and pant under his ministrations.

“…god… Jimmy…“

It was uttered in a breathless gasp, and Wilson slipped his hand between their bodies, stroking House’s hardness with his fingertips, more teasing than really stroking, making sure to give his lover as much pleasure as he could. House reacted to every languid thrust, moaning Wilson’s name, wordlessly encouraging and begging him to speed things up. Wilson pulled House even closer and allowed himself to let go, panting and moaning his lover’s name, when he felt House start to tremble and buck wildly.

Emotions shot through him, wild and untamed. He felt so much, so many different things, and for a moment James thought he might drown in the pleasure, raw and wild and deep sexual need and want. He was losing track of everything for a moment, gasping, fighting to stay on top, and then his climax washed everything away.

It was the first time he heard House cry out as he came.  
   
 

Coming down from the high of an incredibly intense climax, Wilson noticed that House hadn’t stopped trembling. His lover lay in his arms, eyes closed and still sweaty, and his breath came in ragged gasps. There were no visible tears on his face, but this shocked Wilson to the core nevertheless.

He fought his wildly fluctuating emotions, reining in what he felt to concentrate on the older man. It was hard, but he managed. Part of him wondered what was wrong with him. He had had orgasms before, but never like this.

“Greg?”

House made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob and turned rapidly, burying his face in the pillow. Wilson found himself completely at a loss this very moment, so he decided to do the only thing that came to his mind – wrap himself around his lover, pull the blankets around them both and hold House, be there for him whatever it might be. He had a faint idea, and he hated it.

As his hand touched the warm body, he felt the tremors and he hated it even more. Wilson buried his head against his lover's neck, forehead pressed into the sweaty hair of House's neck.

Something trickled through him once more. Gentle and almost too faint to really feel it as an emotion. It was this need to hold it together, the failure at doing so, and he whispered his lover's name.

House tried to curl up, but Wilson's gentle caress stopped him. He had one arm around the taller man's waist, holding him tightly.

It took a lifetime for House to calm down, or so it seemed. He finally stopped shivering. Cocooned in the embrace, House exhaled shakily. He was barely hanging on to his fluctuating emotions and despite his much calmer exterior, he was in emotional upheaval.

“It’s okay,” Wilson whispered softly, stroking the other man’s hair and back. “I’m here, Greg. It’s okay. Sshhh…"

"It's not," House whispered harshly.

"It is," Wilson insisted. "You just went through a very emotional experience."

Blue eyes cracked open and he saw the familiar sarcasm. "Oh really?"

"Greg…"

Wilson leaned down and placed gentle kisses on the warm skin of House's shoulder.

"Did we resolve the situation?" he murmured.

A quiet laugh escaped House. They lay together for a while, Wilson caressing the man he loved so much, the man who had given him more than anyone else ever had. He knew what House had done. He knew just how much this had taken out of him.

“Who was it?” Wilson asked very softly after a while. He felt more than heard House inhale. “You don’t have to answer,” he added.

“I know.”

House fell silent after that. It was a long stretched silence.

“His name was Daniel.”

It was uttered so softly Wilson had to strain to hear it. Placing a soft kiss on his lover’s shoulder, he silently indicated he had heard him, encouraging House to go on, if he wished to.

“Med School.”

Oh-kay … long time ago indeed.

"I was the youngest student back then."

Wilson knew a little about his best friend's school years, but not much. House had always been a quick study, a brilliant mind, and he stored information like a computer. He had never asked more than House had been ready to tell, to let slide into a conversation.

“I was the whiz kid back then, graduated early.”

How young exactly? Wilson wondered, but he didn't wonder out loud. One word and he might break the mood, send House back into his silence.

“Daniel, he… he was everything I wasn’t. Good looking, charming, had a lot of friends. Elite student. I was just the nerd with an attitude.”

Lots of attitude, Wilson thought with a fine smile, but something else inside him shivered. It rather sounded to him like the typical bully story, and he had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t like what was about to come.

House sighed. “I wasn’t impressed at all when he started to talk to me, asked for some help with a course, but I helped him nevertheless. One day he kissed me.”

That was new.

“We even went out together, once. When we came home to the dorm, he…”

Please, don’t tell me he raped you, Wilson prayed.

“He said he wanted me, couldn’t think about anything else anymore. I didn't know why. I was lanky, didn't look good. Wasn't a handsome jock. I was into sports, sure, but I wasn't a football player. I wasn't a top athlete.”

No, he had been a runner. Wilson knew just how much he had enjoyed jogging and running. They had gone on runs together before the infarction had happened.

By now House’s tone had become a little sharp, almost bitter, and Wilson caressed his chest, feeling the other man’s hands tighten around his arm.

“Let’s just say I didn’t turn him down. It was okay. Kissing. Touching. He jerked me off; it was better than doing it myself." House's voice was full of sarcasm. "But then… he had no experience with men, no idea about lube, no – condom… and it hurt. Like a bitch.”

Wilson shuddered inwardly, remembering the discomfort with his first time, properly stretched and lubed. He had never slept with a man before House, and House had been a very considerate lover. It had been amazing. To have someone ignoring your needs, just looking for his own pleasure…

“I could have lived with that. I could have," House continued, voice filled with anger and distaste. "Next morning I saw Daniel in the cafeteria, surrounded by his friends. He was collecting the winnings of his bet.”

Holy… Wilson winced. That explained a whole lot. No wonder House had both trust and control issues. No wonder he could never really relax around people. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had been used, close to raped, though it had been with his consent, and he had had to watch as the person he had trusted with his first time had turned it into a game.

“How old were you?” he asked quietly.

“Eighteen.”

“I’m…“

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry!" House snapped, body tensing.

"Greg."

The other man turned, blue eyes cold but still flashing with an anger that gave them heat. Wilson cupped the narrow face, feeling the stubble against his palm. He caressed the rough skin.

"Water under the bridge, Jimmy,” House said softly, leaning into the caress.

“Did you ever tell anybody?”

House evaded his eyes. “No.”

“Greg?”

“What?”

“Look at me?”

Again he was pinned down by those intense eyes. Wilson touched him once more, exuding warmth and gentleness. And again he felt something flicker through him.

“Did it hurt this time?” he wanted to know.

“No. Not really.”

Wilson leaned up and brushed their lips together. "Good. Would you have told me?"

House was silent, just looking at him, then he kissed him, pressing their lips together in a tender contact.

"Would you have?" he asked roughly.

James smiled a little. "Yeah. I would tell you. I love being with you. I'd never lie about this."

"What would you lie about?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Nothing."

"But you did before. Several times."

"It was never a lie. It was an obfuscation."

The look that got him was laced with doubt.

"Never about this," Wilson repeated, running gentle fingers through the unruly curls. "Don't lie about this to me either. If you never want to do that again, it’s fine with me.”

"I don't know," House said truthfully.

"And that's really okay."

Their lips met once more, mouths and tongues moving against each other. Wilson pulled his lover closer, but then he felt the wince.

"You need your pill?" he whispered against the moist lips.

"Yeah."

House groped for the bottle and popped the lid, dry-swallowing it. Then he settled against the younger man, eyes closed, body relaxing as the painkiller worked its magic.

Wilson just held him, amazed at what had happened tonight.

“Jimmy?” House murmured into the silence.

“Yes?”

“Did you call me ‘sweetheart’?”

Wilson had to smile. “Yes."

"Why?"

"It distracted you.”

Silence again. He could almost hear the wheels turning in his lover's head. “Since when do you feel the need for endearments?”

“Since five seconds ago, baby. And if you don’t stop those silly terms of endearments right now, I’ll call you honeybunch right in Cuddy’s office.”

House snorted, but he fell silent again, snuggling closer.  
   
 

Outside the rain was still drumming hard against the windows and roofs of the houses. The storm was not yet over, though the growl of the thunder had lessened.

* * *

Work went back to normal. Cases came in, but none for Diagnostics and House. The team was twiddling its thumbs until Sharon McNott. House was on the case like flies on stink. Sharon was suffering from sudden loss of consciousness, seizures, problems with keeping her balance and loss of appetite. She was already on intravenous feeds and the seizures were getting worse despite everything they tried.

It was sheer dumb luck that Cameron stumbled over a semi-right solution and it kicked House's brain cells into remembering the correct combination of treatments. While his team went about helping Sharon, he leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his lips.

"You look satisfied," Wilson remarked as he walked in.

"Case solved," House declared.

"I heard. Frees up the rest of your day."

"Yup."

Wilson leaned casually against the wall with one shoulder, hands in his pockets. He was without his lab coat or his jacket.

"Got plans?"

"Bike's getting dusty. I thought I'd take her out for a ride."

Wilson grimaced. House just grinned, aware of how much his lover was ill at ease with his dangerous hobby. He liked to tease him with it, taunt him into taking a ride with House, and he would gleefully remind Wilson what a scaredy-cat he was. Now those blue eyes shot Wilson a challenging look.

Brown eyes met those intense blues calmly. House felt his smile grow at the calmness that didn't cover the younger man's tension at the thought of having House on the bike, out there, alone.

"I could be convinced otherwise," he threw Wilson an opening.

It got him a twitch of the lips. "As if."

"Try me."

"And lose anyway? No thank you, I'd rather conserve my energy."

House's expression was even more calculating now. "I can think of a few ways to expend those energies."

"So can I. Paperwork."

"Oh, spoilsport. Cuddy can wait. I can't."

"You have plans," Wilson reminded him, pushing himself away from the wall. "Your bike's waiting. See you at home."

With that he walked toward the door and House growled, grabbing his cane. He wasn't fast enough to stop Wilson from leaving Diagnostics, but he was quick enough to be there before his lover closed his door. He did that for him, pushing the wooden door shut and smiling predatorily at the younger man.

"I thought you had plans," Wilson said.

House hooked his fingers into the waist band of his lover's suit pants and pulled him close.

"Still do," he told him.

"With your bike?"

"Screw the bike."

"I'd rather not."

House was leaning against the door, Wilson so close he could feel his body warmth, and when he slipped that hand from the pants to wrap it around his waist, Wilson easily leaned against him. When had they started to fit so perfectly together? Lips collided and mouths opened, hungry and demanding. House pulled Wilson even closer, glad for the support of the door, and his cane clattered to the ground as he used his second hand to hold the oncologist tightly.

"House," came a soft groan. "I thought we wouldn't do this here."

"That's what you think, but I never agreed to it," House replied, grabbing the enticing behind with one hand, squeezing.

Wilson swallowed hard, eagerly meeting the next kiss that grew even more demanding. House knew that if they continued like that they'd truly end up against the wall, in a very compromising situation, and while he didn't care about Cuddy's blood pressure, he didn't want her screech to cause chronic tinnitus.

"Home," he commanded roughly.

Wilson drew a shaky breath, visibly aroused. "Got work," he argued.

"Won't run away."

"Cuddy will have my head!"

"You're always so punctual. This can wait," House replied.

"Greg…"

"Your choice, Jimmy," he interrupted him throatily. "I can go and ride my bike till it gets dark, and then some. You can do your paperwork; boring, unimportant paperwork. Or we can go home…"

"And you ride me?" Wilson teased.

House grinned more. "Yeah, that's an option. Don't tell me you haven't missed that," he added with a throaty murmured. "Because I have. I want you hard and fast and deep and crying my name…"

Wilson closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "Greg…"

"Your choice. The bike? Me?"

"Bastard."

He smiled smugly. "Yep."

"Manipulative son-of-a-bitch."

"Shouldn't we leave the pet names for bed?"

Wilson glared at him, brown eyes dilated with arousal and need. Yeah, he had him. His lover was close to begging for it here and now.

"Home," House murmured again, leaning forward to nip at the smooth chin. "Want you, Jimmy. Badly."

"More than Vicodin?"

He chuckled but didn't answer, just sealed Wilson's mouth with his own, kissing him hard. He didn't want to answer the question because he knew what the answer would be. So did Wilson.

The younger man caved. He could feel it with everything he had, could almost taste the surrender on those pliable lips.

"Get your backpack," James murmured, pushing away from him. "I'll pack up mine."

House found it a real challenge not to just leave his things and take his lover home right now, on the spot, without hesitation. But reason won out and he knew he needed his stuff.

With a last look he left the office, trying to clear the haze of lust from his mind. Not here, he told himself. Not here and now. He wasn't twenty, he wasn't a hormone driven teenager – though Wilson could turn him into one – and he could do this. Get his things, drive home, wait for his lover.

"Dr. House?"

He grit his teeth and turned around, shooting Cameron a glare.

She almost took a step back, but then her shoulders straightened and her face took on a determined expression. She was holding a file in her hands. Great.

"What?" he only snapped.

"You need to sign the release papers," she only said, holding the file out to him.

"Since when? You or Foreman or even Chase can do it!"

"You always co-sign."

He grumbled and snatched the file out of her hand, limping to his office where he messily signed the necessary papers to close their latest case for good.

"I liked you better when you were still faking my signature," he muttered and tossed the file back at her.

"Are you leaving for today?"

"Yes, Dr. Cameron, I am," he replied tersely.

She hesitated, looking like she wanted to say something, then she just nodded.

"With your permission, I'll leave now," House continued, grabbing his backpack. "Got a date." His smile grew more lecherous. "Hot date."

"You got clinic duty tomorrow," Cameron only remarked.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be just fine." Another leer.

And Cameron smiled. "Leave him in one piece."

"All bets are off."

He limped out of the room and into the parking lot where his bike was, as always, parked in the handicap parking spot.

House tried not to break too many speeding laws as he tore out into the streets and headed home.


End file.
